


Time I Had Some Time Alone

by KiwiMeringue



Series: Undying Fidelity [2]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Disney Grandmaster, F/M, Thor Ragnarok AU, nevermind THIS is the silliest thing I've ever written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiwiMeringue/pseuds/KiwiMeringue
Summary: Loki's comfortable life on Sakaar is shattered when the newest curiosity dragged before the Grandmaster is his brother... And the day just keeps on getting worse.Logyn, Thor Ragnarok AU.(Silly companion piece to Undying Fidelity, started as a warm-up for same)





	1. 21 Days Later

“I guess you’re going to want to bet on Sparkles, now.” 

It takes Loki a moment to realize he’s been spoken to, but he’s able to catch on quickly enough, and drag his thoughts back from where they’ve wandered. He smiles, turning his attention back to his drinking companion, sat across from him.  “How can I bet against your champion when he comes so highly recommended? No. I’ll put five hundred thousand units on your champion.”

He feigns hurt. “Only five?”

“Fine,” Loki concedes, grinning. “Make it an even million.”

The Grandmaster grins, with an approving clap on the back that devolves into an enthusiastic squeeze of his shoulder. “Good man.”

He isn’t. He really, truly, isn’t.  

It’s impossible to focus on the party after the interruption, and despite his best efforts his attention keeps drifting back to his brother’s current predicament. Loki’s fairly certain he knows where he’s being held, he could check in on him briefly. He wouldn’t even have to leave the party, just excuse himself for a moment, find someplace private, and drop in by magical proxy.  The temptation to do so is getting the better of him, and at the first opportunity, he’ll make some excuse to leave the room, if only to get it out of the way.

The man sitting opposite him studies the contents of his glass intently as he swirls it in his hand, before finally speaking again the moment Loki moves to stand. “I have a brother,” the Grandmaster confides, in a stage whisper that most of the room has likely heard, “not crazy about him either.” He raises his glass, and his eyebrows. “Good riddance to bad brothers,” he announces.

“Good riddance,” Loki echoes, mimicking the toast before throwing his head back to down far, far more of his drink than even he should at once. 

Loki reaches for a bottle on the table between them and pours himself another glassful of the bright green Sakaaran liquor. If he can’t drown out his conscience with his usual means, then he means to drown it in alien booze.

The grandmaster offers his own glass for refilling, and Loki obliges. “You know, you Asguys are really coming out of the woodwork recently—”

Loki’s about to respond, something caustic about how he’s never had much luck escaping his perfect brother’s orbit, that of course once he finally settles somewhere Thor would be here to ruin it all, but the words die in his throat when the Grandmaster continues.   

“—that’s the second one 142 has brought me in as many days.”

He pauses, stopping just short of overflowing the cup. “Second?”

“Aw,” the Grandmaster waves his hand dismissively, twisting in his seat to the unimpressed woman always attending him. “Damn it, I’ve ruined the surprise, haven’t I? I’m always doing that, I get excited and I just blab, don’t I Topaz?”

“You’re very enthusiastic, sir,” his bodyguard drones.

He stands, suddenly, slippered feet padding across the floor, fingers steepled carefully, and waves for Loki to follow him as he starts for the other end of the room. “Well, if the surprise is already ruined, might as well show of the little Gingersnap. Come on, come on.”

Ginger…? The nervous chuckle welling up in his throat passes the uneasiness creeping down his spine on its way by. “You’re being ironic, I imagine? Please tell me it’s actually a big fat fellow with a beard.”

 “Nope. Though, that would be hilarious,” he says brightly, leading him to a series of monitors mounted on the far wall, partygoers languidly parting for them as they pass. “Real cute little thing; come see,” he strides up to one of the screens, and taps insistently against the glass. “Doesn’t look like much, but 142 was adamant.”

Please, he thinks, let it be Lorelei. He can deal with Lorelei.

It isn’t Lorelei.

There’s no audio, but the figure the grandmaster indicates is sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, beside where his brother has likely knelt in prayer, and they seem to be speaking eagerly. Curled in a ball of copper hair and an uncharacteristically scant amount of eye-watering yellow fabric, he’s almost able to convince himself that this is some alarming coincidence, and he isn’t seeing what he’s seeing— that his brother has made friends with some **other** auburn-haired ásynja, but she just happens to glance upwards towards the camera, and there’s no mistaking her then.

Loki more than enjoys chaos. It’s home. It’s his element. It is the condition under which he does his best work, and thus far, Sakaar has proven to be the perfect medium. He’s never been one to orchestrate. It’s not about arranging specifics as much as it’s always been about sending the game board toppling and trusting himself to make the best of however the pieces land— and in that upheaval, indifference is his greatest asset. Fortunately, he cares for very little, but today has been one laser-guided strike after another, and he’s beginning to suspect that the Norns really do hate him, personally, and that even he, Loki, God of Mischief, must have a limit to the improbable bullshit he can tolerate in a single day, because it’s rapidly approaching.    

What is undoubtedly Lady Sigyn Helgaottir of Asgard, Lady-in-Waiting to the late Queen Frigga, is being kept prisoner in the Contest of Champion’s ‘involuntary accommodations,’ clawing desperately at the obedience disk embedded in her neck.

This is not his problem.

Loki can only begin to fathom the myriad ways in which this is not his problem.

Still, he feels the words on his tongue before he can bite them back, and the impulse slips free unbidden.

“ ** _That’s my wife_**.”

The declaration, hastily stammered, hangs in the air and he gapes, horrified— partially for the sake of the act, but also genuinely at himself, because **_what is he doing_** and there’s no going back now. Beside him, he sees the Grandmaster’s bewildered gaze slowly turn to him, and in the time it takes, he’s able to corral his expression into flustered relief, a palm pressed flat to his heart, fingers splayed. “This is— When I landed here I never thought I’d see her again, oh thank goodness you’ve found her.” 

The Grandmaster’s eyebrows arch towards his hairline, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks in theatrical disbelief. “You’re married? **_You_**? Really,” he says, scandalized. “I uh….wow, I have a hard time picturing that.”

“We...” Loki falters for an instant, with a nervous chuckle, before recovering his winning smile. “Sigyn and I have a… an **_understanding_**. I like my freedom, certainly, but I truly am fond of her, so if you could—” he gestures hopefully towards himself but the Grandmaster isn’t watching.  

Instead, the Grandmaster hums critically, not looking away from the monitor. “You sure you want her back?”    

“Yes. Yes, absolutely—”

“Because, I mean, there’s ‘understanding,’ and then there’s… you know, your **_brother_**.” He motions towards the screen with a sharp jut of his painted chin and Loki can see that Thor’s pulled her tiny form into his arms, trying to console her with reassuring pats on the back as she weeps against his chest, face in her hands.

He watches, transfixed, a cold pit settling in his stomach.

 “I mean, adopted or not, **_yikes_** ,” he Grandmaster hisses through his teeth and winces in maybe-feigned sympathy as he glances back from the screen. “Do you want me to get rid of them? I mean it. Just say the word and I can make them fight each other to the death.” He smiles, with a quick series of encouraging nods of his head.

“No. No, no, no,” Loki assures the alien, smiling easily despite the guilty knot in his gut. “We’re all just very close. As a family. She’s very…. Affectionate. That’s normal.”

“You claimed not to know Sparkles, earlier.”

“ ** _He and I_** don’t get along, but the rest of us, in other combinations. My mother adored her, how often does that happen?” He shrugs, chuckling, lays it on as thick as he can, and swoops in for the kill. “Now— my dearest friend— if you could be so kind as to return her to me, I would be **_immensely_** grateful.”

“I mean— for you? I would **_love_** to, but,” the alien hums to himself again, making a halting sound in the back of his throat and an equivocating gesture with his hands, expression rueful. “Lord of Thunder’s challenged our champion, and I need an opening act. I’ve sold tickets. Sooooo….” He shrugs, features contorting into an exaggerated regret. “Kind of in a bind, here?”

Behind them, the general muffled din of the other partygoers continues, but their discussion has caught the attention of a few nearby, and Loki spots a number of turned heads, drinks forgotten in their hands, as they eavesdrop.

“Look,” he changes tactics and lowers his voice, palms held out, appeasing, “whatever your scrapper told you, Sigyn is no warrior.”  

“142 knows what she’s talking about; she’s never let me down. If she says your little— Cygnet? — is a fighter, she’s a fighter.” 

“She’s… she’s shy. I’m sorry, but I really have to warn you, this isn’t going to go well. You won’t get much entertainment out of her.”

The grandmaster hums again, another reluctant sound, and clucks his tongue. “That’s a shame. Yeah, there wasn’t much of a gimmick there— I mean, we tried, but she wasn’t giving us much to work with. I mean, if the crowd really loves them, they get to live. The people love a good storyline, you know? One week a triumph, the next defeat, rivalries, alliances, all that great stuff— but if the audience is bored they’re going to want, uhhh… you know,” he shrugs, “blood.”

Blood. He keeps nodding, centuries of practice schooling his face into a calm mask despite the cold horror like a knife stabbed into his gut. So Sigyn hasn’t held a weapon in a thousand years. Fine. The average ásynja could hold her own against nearly any creature in the universe, really.  Asgardians are sturdy, and Sigyn is clever, and she must have some recollection of what to do with a sharp object— the Grandmaster speaks again and his stream of rationalizing screeches to an abrupt halt.

“I mean,” the other man’s lips pull into a wry, knowing smile, and it’s an expression Loki recognizes all too well— he’s usually on the other side of it. “Unless you can suggest something more **_entertaining_** , she’s fighting that Kronan.”

Loki’s mouth goes dry. “Kronan?” A glance over at the screen confirms it, he can see creature just at the edge of the frame. Diminutive, by Kronan standards, but that still makes him at least twice Sigyn’s size, powerfully built out of living stone, and bearing more than a passing resemblance to the Trolls that killed her mother. He catches himself wringing his hands.

This is, absolutely, not his problem. It isn’t hard to summon up a millennium of resentment, each perceived slight since childhood bubbling eagerly to the surface— for the past thousand years Sigyn has barely been able to stand breathing the same air as he does (and he has this intense suspicion that he knows precisely why, and that fosters ice cold fury all of it’s own). She hadn’t visited him once in his cell, couldn’t even meet his eye as his brother had marched him to the bifrost after his discovery.

He owes her nothing.

His traitorous eyes flicker back to the screen, and back to Sigyn, trembling, shoulders heaving with the force of her sobs. She’s terrified.

It’s a sickening display of frailty; he thinks he might be sick. 

Loki’s smile is a bit too tight as he swallows hard, meeting the Grandmaster’s expectant gaze, the self-satisfied look of a predator watching prey wander blithely into a trap. “What did you have in mind?” he asks.

As if he wasn’t already sure.

 

* * *

 

 

The door to the freaky circle opens with a pneumatic hiss, and the imposing figure of the Grandmaster’s bodyguard appears in the doorway. Thor springs to his feet, Sigyn scrambling to her own beside him, impeded by the flowing skirts they’ve dressed her in. 

“Alright,” she orders, gesturing brusquely to the ásynja. “You, come with me.”

“Sigyn, keep behind me,” Thor orders, levelling a challenging glare at the woman as he places himself between them. “You’re not taking her anywhere.”  They both flinch involuntarily when she produces the remote, but it’s not enough to deter him, and he’s calculating how best to knock it out of her hand before she can press the button and incapacitate him. Perhaps working together—

The guard has it held high, thumb at the ready, as though she were threatening them with a detonator, but a familiar figure steps from the hallway behind her, and very carefully eases his hand over the guard’s to lower it. “Now, now. Shouldn’t be any need for that.”

“Loki,” Thor growls low in his throat, but he stops at his brother’s expression. Loki meet his eyes, unblinking, and very slowly, deliberately, nods his head, careful to place himself so the guard can’t see it. It’s a well-practiced gesture, shorthand developed over a thousand years of adventuring together, and though he understands it immediately, Sigyn doesn’t. Which is why Loki turns his attention to her, and very carefully mouths: _Play along_.  

Thor still eyes him carefully, jaw set tight.

When he’s certain that she’s gotten the message he steps past Topaz, a few long strides carrying him across the short span of the room, and with a graceful sweep of his arms, pulls her into an awkward embrace.  “ ** _There_** you are, Darling. Oh, I’ve missed you terribly.”  To her credit, she doesn’t pull away, but he can see every muscle go taught as she fights the impulse.                                                                                                  

“I told them you were my wife,” he whispers quickly against the shell of her ear, just loud enough for Thor to catch as well, the words blurring together in his haste to expel them all in a single breath.  “I thought it would help— it didn’t— and if anyone asks you are **_incredibly_** forgiving, because I have **_not_** been conducting myself like a married man.”  He takes in a deep breath and a step back as he releases her, and flashes Topaz a smile that she does not in any way reciprocate.

“Alright, My Love. Go with the ….nice lady.”

 “No,” she says haltingly, taking a step away from the bodyguard and the open door, and glancing nervously back at Thor, trying to arrange her hair to best hide the swath shaved down by her temple before instead crossing her arms protectively over the bare skin of her midriff. She shakes her head, shrinking back, and the look in her eyes when she turns to him is of profound mistrust. Loki looks hurt by it.

“Sigyn, I’m trying to get you out of here,” and then, so quietly that it’s more shape than sound, “please.” 

That gives her pause, and she looks back up at him, studies him intently. The look in her eyes when she finally nods isn’t relief, it’s resignation. She doesn’t trust him, but she’ll give herself up to whatever it is Loki’s done to her. “Okay,” she says quietly, to the guard, but then turns back to Thor for a moment, and forces a smile. “What was the expression you used...? Kick his ass, your Highness.”

Thor returns the weary smile, nodding resolutely. “I will. And then we get off this miserable scrap heap, and back to Asgard to kick Hela’s,” the smile wavers for a moment, leather of his bracers creaking as he clenches his fist. “Somehow.” 

“Somehow,” she echoes, she almost looks to Loki but seems to reconsider, and then timidly lets Topaz lead her away.

Loki stops the bodyguard with a hand to her shoulder, ignoring the dangerous way her eyes trace from the point of contact up along his arm, to finally level her glare at his face. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He gestures expectantly. “The obedience disk. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Nice try, but that wasn’t the deal,” Topaz replies, expression stony and eyes narrowed as she indicates Thor with a curt nod of her head. “It comes out if you win, same as his. Now let me go, or you get one too.” He lifts his hands, palms out, placating. A glance in her direction finds Sigyn watching him again, this time her look of caution and confusion tinged with something like concern.

Thor takes a step closer, scrutinizing the collar of his brother’s alien leathers. “Hey, why **don’t** you have one of these infernal things?”

Loki smiles tersely. “Because I’m here voluntarily.”

At that, Topaz lets out a quick, humourless laugh. “Nobody’s here voluntarily,” she says dryly, shoving Sigyn forward and hauling her away.  

The bodyguard has just about made it from the holding facility when her captive stops abruptly, catching herself in the doorframe like a cat avoiding a bath, and turns back to the room. “Wait! Wait, I just—One last thing,” she assures the bodyguard, who rolls her eyes at yet another interruption as Sigyn pulls away, and rushes back towards, and then…. Right past both of them.  

 “Wait— **_what_**?” And Loki can do little else but stare in slack jawed disbelief as she flits over to the Kronan, standing on her tiptoes to throw her arms around his torso in a quick hug,

“Bye, Korg,” she says fondly, as Topaz grabs Sigyn roughly by the shoulder and starts to tug her towards the door.  “Good luck with your pamphlets!”

“Thanks, Sig! Bye!” The Kronan waves a massive, rocky hand as she’s dragged out the door. “She’s nice,” he says brightly as it slams shut, turning to the brothers. “I was looking forward to our match. Just a bit to warm up the crowd a little? Always nice working with people you’ve got a good rapport with, but ah well.”

Loki blinks, numbly staring off into the middle distance in the general vicinity of the door through which she’s disappeared. “She made friends,” he starts, stunned, eyebrows raised, “with the Kronan.”

Thor grins, clapping his brother on the back with one strong hand, and gesturing broadly to the creature with the other. “Yes, this is Korg. Korg’s great.”

“No, no, I saw her crying. She was beside herself. I was certain that thing—”

“Hey, man, that’s not cool? I may be made of stone but I’ve got, like, feelings? Hi, I should probably introduce myself, name’s Korg—”

Loki ignores him completely, brows furrowing as his dazed confusion becomes the frustrated kind, “—was going to **_slaughter_** her!”

Thor ignores him, his grief and resentment temporarily nudged aside by the giddy relief of having an ally, of having this particular ally back at his side. “Loki you diabolical bastard, I knew you had it in you. Come on, what’s this plan of yours?” He clasps him by the shoulder, eyes intent. “Someone on the inside? Some magic to get us through that door? We could always do ‘get—“

“Thor, that **_was_** the plan. This is the plan,” he gestures between them then indicates the holding area with a distasteful grimace.  “You and I defeat this champion: you’re freed, we both gain a great deal of favour with the Grandmaster, and Sigyn’s under my protection. Works out for everyone.” 

Thor’s grin widens, and he gives Loki’s shoulder an enthusiastic squeeze. He’d been furious, before, but despite Loki’s earlier reluctance, his little brother has come through for him, and is here to help. He’s almost proud of him, and that tempers his earlier ire, a hopeful spark lit in him now by this return to the feeling of their happier days.  “Yes! Like old times. You and I take down whatever this bastard is, then the three of us get the Hel off this garbage heap and save Asgard.”

Loki takes a slow, careful breath, mouth pressed into a thin line, and says nothing. It’s the kind of silence that replaces an unfavourable answer.

“Loki…?” Thor begins, brows furrowing, and then, warning, “ ** _Loki_**.”

“You,” he begins, voice clipped, “are free to do whatever you want, afterwards. I’m staying right here.”

“Loki.”

“You should really consider it. It’s not bad, here. The Grandmaster’s a complete lunatic, but I’ve managed my way into his inner circle. I make some introductions, we establish ourselves, maybe one day something terrible and indisputably accidental befalls—“    

Thor’s expression hardens as Loki goes on, that eager flicker of familiarity fizzling out like a soggy match as he starts back towards the wall and slides down it to sit on the floor, fixing his brother with his most unimpressed scowl as he continues. Loki just keeps talking, outlining his suspiciously detailed plans for their proposed takeover. “She was in the Observatory,” he says, finally.  “That’s why she was crying.”

Loki quiets as the implications sink in.

“Within a minute of arriving, Hela, she…”  Thor presses his knuckles to his mouth and exhales slowly. “She murdered Fandral and Volstagg, and threw Sigyn off the Bifrost. I suppose… this is just where whatever kind of a current it has was headed, at the time. She says she’s been here two days. Which makes absolutely no sense.”

“I’ve been here three weeks. It’s like he said: time is strange, trending towards non-existent. There’s a day-night cycle, but it never seems to go anywhere,” Loki crinkles his nose again as he considers the spot on the floor next to Thor.  He waves his hand over it, his magic blasting away the dust and debris. Somehow, the grimy concrete beneath looks even worse, and with a longsuffering roll of his eyes, he deigns to sit. “For all we know, Hela’s had Asgard for years.”

“Or **_seconds_**. You’re really just going to leave all of Asgard’s people to her mercy?” he shakes his head, a humourless, dark chuckle signaling his disbelief. “After you’re the one who stranded Odin, powerless, on Earth? Meaning you’re the one who let her out of Hel,  ** _you’re_** the one who let her in to Asgard, and you won’t even help me fix it,” Thor fumes, temper rising as he speaks, his earlier hope making the disappointment all the more bitter.  “I can’t believe I actually thought you were going to do the right thing.”    

Loki at least has the decency to look uncomfortable. He sighs, tips his head forward to rest his head against his fist. “Look, it’s beyond us. Our sister is **_Death incarnate;_** she crushed your hammer like it was made of glass. All we’d accomplish is pissing her off, and then we’d die. Exact same situation, but now she’s angry, and we’re dead.” He looks over, head still resting in his hand. “You were really going to bring Sigyn **_back_** there?”  

“I still am. She wants to go,” he says, curt, hands folded neatly in his lap, “because she isn’t a filthy traitor coward.”

Loki rolls his eyes again with an accompanying sigh, slumping against the wall, arms crossed, and one leg thrown over the other. A long, terse silence falls between them, interrupted only by Korg’s uneasy attempts at whistling as he tries to pretend there’s anything like a private conversation in this tiny looping room. 

He refuses to acknowledge the sounds his brother makes beside him, noisy melancholy breaths, or the drumming of nervous fingers against the leather of his strange alien armguards. “I didn’t know,” he admits, just as the droning of one of the overhead lights threatens to drive Thor mad.   He quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing. “About Hela, any of it. I would never have… I didn’t realize what he was contending with. I thought…” His head hits the metal wall with a ringing thud, “I mean, we knew it was coming, but decades, not….” He pauses, reigns his voice back under his control.  “I thought he had more _time._ ”

When Thor glances over, the look in Loki’s eyes is troubled, conflicted, and he can’t help but remember him, genuine, baffled, vulnerable, Silvertongue completely at a loss, as they sat together on that grey cliffside. If it were anyone else, Thor would call it remorse.

That look fades, though, shifts to something more familiar: pensive, brow furrowed, fingers drumming away against the leather. “Why **_didn’t_** he tell us?” he muses. “He was always the one going on about how weren’t immortal, why tie something so important to his lifeforce? If that was the only measure powerful enough, why not warn us about it?”   

Thor mirrors his posture, letting his own head loll back. “I wish I knew. Strange said he **_chose_** to stay…”

“The Midgardian wizard?”

Thor nods, with a deep thoughtful hum. “If he’d broken free of your spell, and knew this was coming, why not return?” He scrubs at his face with his hands, tries to swallow down the lump in his throat before his brother notices it in his voice. “Mother always said Father had a reason for everything, but I can’t make sense of this.”

They grow quiet again, but it’s a more comfortable silence. Not rooted in bitterness, this time, but a shared mystery, at least on the same page.  “I know how it feels, you know,” Loki is the one to break the silence again. “Thinking you’re one thing for so long, then having the rug pulled out beneath your feet. Looking back on things that suddenly make sense and realizing that you’ve been kept in the dark, that people you’ve trusted lied to you.” Loki faking his death comes to mind, but Thor thinks better of saying it. He’s suddenly very conscious of the black hair braided into his blond.

“Having the things that make you yourself stripped away…. I mean, finding out you’re the son of our single greatest enemy as a people is one thing,” he continues, the tone growing a familiar kind of playful, the kind he dips into when he’s shown to much of himself and needs to steer a conversation somewhere safer, “but a _middle child_?” he mouths the words and winces, theatrically.

A smile tugs at Thor’s lips despite himself, and he gives his brother a little shove, which Loki returns, and when the Sakaaran guards slide the door open to collect them, they’re slapping half-heartedly at one another like unruly children. 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not unlike a zoo, he thinks, as he takes in the holding area, bars of red energy allowing spectators at the nearby bar to gawk as they make their final preparations.

“Loki, take something,” Thor says as he tests a short sword. “Or is your plan to stand around and look pretty while ** _I_** fight this champion by myself? He’s said to be formidable.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Oh please, I’m supposed to worry about you? Three weeks ago you walked into Muspelheim and came back with Surter’s skull.”

“For me that was this morning.”

“Even better,” Loki crosses his arms across his chest, eyeing the weaponry with disinterest. “So you killed Surter this morning and you’ll undoubtedly crush their Champion tonight. What else is new?”

None of the clunky weapons (most looking to be cobbled together from bits of scrap) appeal to Loki over the many fine blades he owns, concealed by magic in a pocket of space. This leaves him plenty of time to survey the crowd and stare longingly at drinks he can’t have, such as the one being purchased by a familiar figure. They’ve never interacted, but he recognizes Scrapper 142 well.

“That’s her,” Thor says, eyes narrowed in challenge as he sidles up beside his brother. “The one that got us. The feral garbage people knocked me out with an electrified net—“

“I still can’t believe that works on you.”

 “—and then she shoved this stupid zappy disk thing in my neck.”

“Again. It boggles the mind.”

“Sigyn, though, she overpowered with her bare hands.”  Loki’s eyebrows arch upwards, turning towards his brother in surprise. Docile as she is, she’s still an ásynja. There are few creatures in the universe of comparable size that rival Asgardian strength.  “And besides that, who the Hel meets Sigyn and immediately thinks ‘Gladiator’?”

He can see where his brother’s train of thought leads, and nods, returning his attention to the scrapper, watching her carefully for something very specific. “Sigyn would have tried to speak to her first. When she introduced herself, did she say if she used her full name?”

“You know," Thor begins with a meaningful look, “I'm almost certain she would have. You and the Weirdo both said there’s no time here…”   

Their suspicions are confirmed a moment later when she reaches for another drink, revealing the tattoo along the inside of her forearm: a Valkyrie. Thor approaches her as best he can through the bars, an attempt to win her over to their cause, now that he knows what she is. Loki slinks back, recognizing a lost cause when he sees one. If Scrapper 142 was willing to sell Sigrun’s daughter into slavery, the Valkyrior must mean nothing to her.

“Hey, man,” Korg approaches him, waving a massive rocky hand. “Just wanted to say good luck out there. Since it’s your first fight and all, and everyone who goes up against the champion dies? But I’ve got faith in you Dougs. So, I hope you win, and get your… you know, you’re not-wife back? Sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s really hard in a room that small? Anyway, if you live, I think maybe you might want to consider what kind of unresolved feelings would make you go right to wife and not… you know… sister? Or cousin. Or anybody else you might have had a special kind of relationship with that would maybe lend them some of your status by association?”

He blinks at the Kronan, and his onslaught of unwanted and extremely personal soul-searching.  He’s fairly certain he’d heard equally impassioned rambling about Mjolnir and grief while Thor was looking at weaponry. He wants to tell the Kronan to go fuck himself. “Childhood friend,” he finds himself confiding, instead.  “Only friend,” he amends.

“Yeah! That would have been a great one.” Korg beams.  “Anyway, hope you haven’t made any enemies, or that could put a real target on Sig’s back if you die. Ah well, you seem like a real nice fella, I bet you don’t have any.” Korg pats a stunned Loki on the shoulder, wishes him luck one last time as he lumbers away. “Bye, other new Doug!”

Thor stalks over, fuming, muttering to himself about being betrayed by one of his childhood heroes, surrounded by traitors and cowards. Evidently, Thor is still on his own regarding his plan to save Asgard. A moment later a warden calls them forward for ‘processing.’    

Thor turns to him, suspiciously as the guards approach, “What exactly do they mean by ‘processing?’”

Loki shrugs, indicates his brother’s Asgardian attire, then sweeps a hand to indicate the rest of the room. He runs a hand through his hair by his temple, then prods his brother’s armor.  “What they did to Sigyn, I’d imagine.”

Thor’s eyes go wide in horror as the guards close in, roaring in fury that fizzles into a stuttering whimper as the obedience disk is activated. Loki steps over him on his way towards the indicated chamber. “See you soon,” he tells Thor’s groaning form as he’s hauled away.   

 

* * *

 

 

They meet by the door into the arena, Thor still fuming. He’s armored, painted, his flowing blond hair hacked away like a humiliated lion.

Loki’s armor is very much like his earlier clothing, leather, the same deep teal and purple, accented by bright yellow along the edges.  It’s lighter armor than Thor’s, sleeker, but he has sleeves, no skin showing between the shoulders and vambraces. His hair appears shorn down at both sides, what’s left pulled into a knot at the back of his head,

Thor’s nose crinkles as he takes in his brother’s appearance, and his grim expression lessens as he chuckles to himself. “I see they did quite a number on you, as well.”

“I certainly let them think they did.” A flash of green light restores his hair to its previous state for an instant before he slips the illusion back into place. Thor pouts visibly, and runs a hand through the short, buzzed sides of his stolen hair.

“Unbelievable.”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t think of it. Hm… wait,” he considers his brother for a moment, then the light of his magic passes over him again, and curling, serpentine shapes appear into the short sides, not unlike the jagged cuts into Thor’s. He adds a slash of teal war paint down the opposite sides of his face and neck, then some runes in yellow across the blue of the leather for good measure. Protective charms, because why not, but the important thing is the look. “There, now we match.”   

Thor’s frown deepens as he looks him up and down. “Loki what is this? Change to your own colours, at least.”

“These happen to be preferred colours of the Grandmaster,” he replies, more than a little degraded by the admission. He clears his throat, indicates backstage. “They were… adamant, I not wear green.” Thor gives him a questioning look, but he can only shrug in reply. He’s long since given up trying to make sense of anything on Sakaar— best to just take things as they come.

The doors gape open and they’re pointed into the ring. It’s massive as they step out into the open, an immense hologram of the Grandmaster projected into the middle by the drones that flit around the ring. The stands are teeming with all manner of creature, ships hovering overhead where even more spectators watch. Judging by both the bloodstains splattered across the arena, and the Grandmaster’s commentary as he announces the main event, it seems he had no shortage of opening acts, the conniving bastard. Being outfoxed doesn’t sit well with the Trickster god, especially not…. Well, he knows exactly how it happened, and he let it happen anyway.  He’s meant to be smarter than this kind of vulnerability.  

“And now, our double-header this evening: a sibling act, isn’t that something? Exiled princes from the far reaches of the universe, all the way from Assburgh—” The hologram’s attention flickers to something beside him for an instant. “Ass-guard? Assguard, huh, that’s uh…. That’s really what you went with? Anyway, maybe two against one will finally give our Champion a decent fight, huh folks? Sakaarans, I present to you, the uh—” he glances away again as though for a line, “give it up for the Sons of Udon.” They’re blinded by the sudden flash of spotlights as the overwhelming roar of the audience’s booing crashes down into the arena like a wave, thousands of voices melding together.   

“Sons of….?”

“Honestly, that’s closer than I was expecting.”

The crowd’s jeering dies down as the Grandmaster motions for quiet, and continues his introduction. “First: the up-and-coming, fresh out of the wormhole, his first and likely **_last_** appearance at the Contest of Champions: Lord of Thunder!”  

“GOD,” Thor bellows upwards, completely drowned out by the crowd’s emphatic booing.

“And our second challenger joining him, the other half of this pair, the little brother, prince number 2,  the second son, the second pea in this adorable fraternal pod,” could he perhaps say ‘second’ a bit more? Loki’s not sure the audience has made the association, “Our very own— Some of you know him— some of you’ve loved him,” there’s a suggestive pause, Loki tries not to react, “I have his **_wife_** here with me today, how crazy is that?— Say hello, Loki’s wife,”

Oh no.

There’s a screech of feedback as the hologram of the grandmaster passes something beside him, and through the arena’s speakers comes a very tentative, “Hello, Loki’s wife.” Even scared out of her mind, she can’t resist. More importantly, though, it’s the only **_honest_** way she can reply without answering to a false title.

A ripple of pitying laughter passes through the crowd, and the Grandmaster gives a patronizing chuckle, the scrutinizing look he’s giving her translated into the massive hologram. “Huh. Well, if any of you in the audience just felt their hearts— or whatever equivalent organ you’ve got— flutter, she’s, uh… well, she’s about to be single. Real stickler for pronunciation, though, just warning you.” Oh Norns, the pauses. She’s been correcting a mad despot.

The look on Thor’s face is intense as he glares up into the Grandmaster’s booth. They can’t see her from here, but he’s very clearly looking to someone sitting farther from the edge of the box.  

This whole stupid charade was supposed to protect her, not throw her into the thick of things. There’s a panic settling into his gut at the thought: gentle, honest Sigyn thrown into a pit of vipers— home for him, catastrophe for her. The Grandmaster already knows that he can use her against him. What other incriminating details could he get out of her? Loki lets out a frustrated little hiss from between his teeth, and mutters, “why did I have to stick my neck out for the **_worst liar_** in the known universe?”  

Thor grins at him. “Aww, come on, Loki. Was that not one of the reasons you married her? They do say opposites—”

“I hate you,” he says flatly, reaching out and bracing himself against Thor’s shoulder as he takes a steadying breath, eyes rolling back into his head. “Watch my body for a second; I’ve got to get up there before she gets herself melted.”

But it’s too late.  Something heavy is approaching as the Grandmaster launches into the introduction of their champion and the crowd goes wild with excitement, banners waving, a few clouds of green dust popping into the air. Even above the fevered pitch of their cheering they can hear the thunderous footfalls approaching the arena, gaining speed. Thor and Loki exchange a look, and with a final moment to ready themselves, Loki draws twin daggers, Thor slides a facsimile of his typical helm into place.

He misses his helmet, suddenly, misses his green and gold. He feels less himself, without them, but tramps down the thought as it arises. He doesn’t want to be himself, he wants to be whatever best wins him the Sakaarans’ esteem.  

The Grandmaster’s introduction reaches a crescendo. “…He’s the reigning… He’s the defending, Ladies and Gentlemen, I GIVE YOU, THE INCREDIBLE—“

A roar shakes the arena as the Grandmaster’s champion erupts through the massive door, rending it from its hinges, and there it is: Loki’s bullshit limit. “ _No,_ ” Loki breathes in cold terror, panic flooding his veins like venom.  

“ **YES!** ” crows Thor in delight, as an armored and heavily armed Hulk charges into the ring.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a goofy thing I'm writing for fun between UF chapters, as they become non-spoilerey xD. For example , I'm going to have to get a bit farther in UF before I can post the next one, I think. Without spoiling anything, Endgame (and infinity war, really) both have me really missing Ragnarok, where things were bleak but there was still optimism? Anyway, I sincerely hope you get a kick out of it. I'm going to try and avoid typing out scenes or conversations that would happen the same way, though we do sometimes get like, altered versions. And I don't want to rip those off word for word, but at the same time, the way it is in the movie is usually perfect, so. IDK. Thank you to anyone reading, I sincerely hope you enjoy, and if yoy're looking for a more serious canon-adjacent Logyn fic, I'll get back to Undying Fidelity now that I have a bit of this out of my system! Thank you for reading! 


	2. Beyond Thunderdome

Fandral whistles appreciatively as he strides into the Observatory, taking in the immense severed head of the dragon gaping before the Bifrost’s machinery. “You see, Sige?” he says, flashing a smile over his shoulder at the two figures behind him. “This is the kind of thing you miss, staying home,” he turns to Volstagg, still at the ready by Hofund. “Next outing, she really must join us, mustn’t she?” he encourages, his grin widening when Volstagg nods his assent.

“Perhaps somewhere with fewer dragons,” Volstagg adds, with an eyebrow raised at the creature’s remains, and then an even more critical expression when the surrogate Gatekeeper, still dripping dragon blood, bustles past Sigyn into the chamber, and approaches him at the mechanism. He scowls and stalks away, fuming, when Volstagg doesn’t budge, gesturing instead towards a mop and bucket abandoned at the edge of the room.

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for adventure…” she begins, distracted as she creeps forward to examine the felled beast, its massive jaws agape, tongue lolling out across the floor, glazed eyes rolled back into its head.   

“Nonsense! Sif would be thrilled;” Volstagg replies, beaming. “It would be just like when you lot were children, again.  Ah, those were the days: watching over you on your little excursions in the mountains. Fandral, and you and Sif, and the— well,” his smile becomes more of a grimace. _The princes,_ he doesn’t say. “Perhaps not exactly like that.”  

Fandral joins her where she’s paused by the dragon, doesn’t seem to notice how tense she’s grown. He nudges curiously at a barbell-like protrusion with his boot. “We should do something fun, soon,” he muses with a glance upwards to Volstagg, then directs his attention back to Sigyn for a moment. “You know, low stakes, somewhere friendly— We may finally have Thor back, and he may well need cheering up after… well, whatever’s going on right now.”

Sigyn says nothing, but settles herself more snugly into the pink shawl she’s got pulled around herself, a finger plucking nervously at the border of embroidered flowers. She’s been brimming with nervous energy since the incident at the theater, and in hopes of distracting herself from it, had followed her friend and their interim Gatekeeper— _oh Norns_ , she realizes with a sickening lurch of her stomach, _poor Heimdall_. She briefly contemplates a search party, but… well, it’s **Heimdall** , so she supposes he must know already that it’s safe to come out of hiding— and **_Sif_**.

She knows her last two assignments in Midgard, at least, had been real, but she’s been off in the stars for months now on a mission that had sounded rather like a wild goose chase, and damn if that isn’t making an alarming kind of sense, now.

She’s distantly aware that she’s in shock, but the very same keeps her from really processing it. It’s a recursive kind of feeling. Nothing since the incident has felt quite concrete, quite real yet, and she feels a kind of foggy distraction grip her. Sigyn’s dimly aware that Skurge, now demoted from Gatekeeper, has begun mopping up the dragon ichor half-heartedly, all the while watching with a kind of eager hope as the two of the Warriors Three (Hogun had not been particularly interested in ‘giant dead lizard’) discuss a potential next group venture. They’ve moved on to a different topic of conversation, though, one that interests him far less and that sets a cold pit in Sigyn’s stomach when she drags her wayward attention back to it.

“—I mean, Midgard is a **_nice_** place to be banished to, all things considered, and even if it weren’t, that’s like banishing a fox to a hen house. Even stripped of his power, it wouldn’t be fair to Midgard.” Fandral’s leaning casually against the cleanest part of the dragon carcass.

“I’d say the wastelands of Svartalfheim— honestly, **_Jötunheim_** would be fitting, but… obviously he can get in and out of there too, can’t he?”

“That’s just it, isn’t it? Where **_can’t_** he slither out from? That leaves his old cell… Or,” Fandral pauses meaningfully.

“Or,” Volstagg agrees.

“Could we talk about literally anything else?” Sigyn doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud until she hears it in her strained voice, and glancing down, she finds her braid wrung so tight in her hands that it threatens to fray. It takes more effort than it should to force her fingers to open, to pry it from her own nervous grasp.    

The two look at each other, and then back to her. She can’t quite summon up a single, specific word that properly encompasses _judgemental sympathy_ , but if it exists, her friends’ current expressions are the time for it.

She takes a deep breath and clears her throat, tries to move past whatever it is they’re both thinking right now, and indicates the dragon head. “We should probably get this out of here.”

“Should we wait?” Fandral replies. “It’s interesting; maybe Thor wants a look.”     

She all but crawls inside the dragon’s mouth for an instant, wrapping a hand around a snaggled fang to drag the jaws open and show the jagged, branching burns that cut across its tongue and palate. “I suspect he’s had a good look at it already.”

They debate it for a moment, none of them familiar enough with magic components to know if a fire dragon carcass is valuable in some way, but it’s taking up most of the Observatory, and an acrid, sulphur smell has been steadily filling the chamber and burning at their lungs. Volstagg finally suggests dropping it somewhere remote and abandoned through the Bifrost, where it would be safe and easily recoverable.

Fandral smirks at him, slyly, as he and Sigyn haul the gigantic severed head into place. “You just want to play with the Bifrost, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Volstagg replies with a hearty bark of laughter, and the two quickly back out of the way as he twists Hofund in the mechanism, the Bifrost sucking the dragon head out through its swirling energy. For a second, through the whirling colours, Sigyn thinks she can see the bare grey rock of the nearby asteroid they’d chosen— and then it’s gone.

With the room’s major occupant vanished, Sigyn’s now far more aware of something else unusual, pushed against the far wall: a pile of foreign oddities that were certainly never there during Heimdall’s tenure. There’s elven jewelry, bolts of Vanir fabric, assorted weaponry— both familiar and alien, and a collection of strange things she thinks may be from Midgard, chiefly among them some kind of vehicle. It’s wheeled, anyway, with a seat and something that might be a light, painted a cheery mint green. “What is all this?”

“Nothin’ anyone’s going to miss,” Skurge insists, mopping indignantly.  

Sigyn spies up a colourful box tucked behind the vehicle. It’s heavy when she picks it up to inspect it, some kind of machine displayed on the packaging, with buttons, shaped as though to be held. There’s a folded sheet of card fastened to it, and she peels it open, her brow furrowing as the magic of the Allspeak rearranges the strange letters into something she can understand. “This one says: _to Jason and Amber, love Grandma_ …” Skurge only shrugs.  She turns the card over in her hand— some kind of adorably depicted winter scene: snow lies heavy on the windowsill outside, a fire roars within a bright hearth, and a pleasant old bearded man fills the stockings hanging there with small gifts. He has both eyes, but… do mortal children still leave their shoes out for the Allfather? How sweet— but looking at it makes her feel more unsettled than heartened.

She doesn’t want to be thinking about Odin, or his whereabouts, or what he’s **_doing_** in Midgard right now.

She starts as a cry rings out through the Observatory— distant but clear: _Bring us back!_ It’s Loki’s voice bearing a note of absolute panic, and despite the source that distress stirs Volstagg to action.

_No!_

That is Thor, now, but it’s too late. Volstagg has already shifted Hofund, and the Bifrost whirs to life.

“I have to **_go_** …” Sigyn says hurriedly, setting the box back down and starting towards the exit.  She’d intended to be long gone when… whoever was eventually going to return did, but Fandral stops her, an eyebrow quirked. Of course, she should just take the Skiff back with them.  That’s what would make sense. She settles back down to wait, and finds her braid twisting in her hands again, her heart in her throat.

A solitary figure appears through the swirling light, tall and dark, crowned with a headdress like gnarled antlers. She slinks forward into the Observatory, her darkened eyes shut, and the figure hesitates there. She draws in a slow breath as though reveling in it, seems alight with it, drawing magic into her body as she draws the air into her lungs, sickly grey pallor growing haler.

Her eyes are green when they flutter open, ringed with bruise-dark circles.

“Who are you?” Volstagg demands, axe in hand as he steps away from the mechanism, “what have you done with Thor—“

She throws her arm forward, sharp as cracking a whip. A bolt flies from her fingers and drives the breath from Volstagg’s chest.

“I’m Hela,” the intruder answers brusquely. 

Sigyn feels like the floor’s given way beneath her as Volstagg staggers, clutching at the dagger where it’s pierced his armor. Blood bubbles at his lips. Cold panic grips her heart as adrenalin floods her veins, and her eyes dart to the halberd laid among Skurge’s collection of stolen trinkets, but in the same moment, before she can move for it, Fandral’s drawn Fimbuldraugr and steps resolutely between her and the intruder.

The other ásynja lunges and he charges forward to meet her. Another thrown dagger, then a second, drawn from nothing, sinks into his chest, one after the other, each with a sickening wet thump. The saber falls from his fingers.    

“Sige, **_run_** ,” he implores, breathless as he lists to the side, falling to his knees. “Warn—!”

She wants, more than anything, to run to them. Every instinct, every place in her heart where her friends live, screams to stay, to protect them with the meager means at her disposal, knowing full well that she’ll fail— but Volstagg’s eyes are pleading when he catches hers, still trying to struggle to his feet. She thinks of his children, always like little cousins to her— of the countless innocents without warning in the city, and tears herself away. She turns and sprints towards the Asgardian capital as fast as her legs will carry her— to find Hogun, Heimdall, **_anyone_** — but not fast enough to escape the sound as two more daggers drive the last gasp of life from Fandral and Volstagg at once.

Hela watches her bolt from the Observatory, head inclined almost curiously, before she raises a skeptical eyebrow and turns towards Skurge, who raises his hands immediately in surrender. “I’m just a janitor,” he insists as he kneels.

Hela smiles, finally satisfied. She practically pours herself into each fluid step as she prowls across the observatory, looking through the aperture at an angle, and the figure bolting towards a skiff left idling alongside the bridge. She tosses another black dagger.

She twists at the last moment, so it catches her through the shoulder rather than the throat, but the impact still sends her sailing over the edge of the bridge to plummet with an undignified yelp.

“Good reflexes,” Hela muses, eyebrows raised as she glances back to her new subject, “poor decision-making. **_You_** , though…” She makes her way back over to him, fluid strides bringing her to tower over him, still on his knees. She looks down upon him approvingly. “You look like a smart boy with **_good_** survival instincts… How about a job?”

Sigyn’s breath escapes her as she tumbles in freefall. Time feels slowed to a crawl as the surface of the bridge tilts then shrinks away, her mind racing and failing to find any way to save herself. There’s just a dizzying drop, down, down, to rocks and the frothing sea at the edge of the world that sweeps out towards nothing but the empty black space yawning between Yggdsrasil’s great branches.

Something catches her, and she’s dragged not down, but sideways, flung towards the void.

Above her, the whirling mechanisms of the Observatory give up the last of their momentum, lurching to a gradual stop. One last pulse of magic surges through the iridescent glass of the Rainbow Bridge, and the Bifrost sweeps her up like a riptide.

 

* * *

 

  
Sigyn starts at the thundering crash from below in the arena, though looking around the strange figures crowding the box, she seems to be the only one surprised. The looks on the guest’s faces— those that have faces. One is white and featureless, and she’d thought it a mannequin until it **_moved_** — are eager, eyes bright and smiles ravenous as an immense green figure crashes through the heavy doorway swinging an immense axe and hammer in each hand. Even from this distance, its roar drowns out the crowd’s frenzied cheering.

Thor was in a dragon’s jaws not long ago, she reminds herself at the sight of it, trying to will away the sudden swell of terror in her chest. The dragon was far bigger, and Thor came out unscathed.

Below, Thor looks somehow jubilant. Loki’s gone grey.

The guard, Topaz, takes a firmer grasp of her bad shoulder, and Sigyn sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Back to the holding area, sir?” _I just want a look at her,_ he’d said to Topaz rather cryptically when she’d hauled Sigyn up here. Apparently that hadn’t been enough, and Sigyn’s not sure if that’s worrying, or a relief.

“What? No, no,” the Grandmaster shakes his head, and gestures for her to follow as he starts towards the long, white couch opposite the box’s window. “I’m still trying to figure you out; I’m still just… not seeing it. Come on, come on.”

Topaz shoves her forward, and she complies, one: not seeing an alternative, given the disk still seemingly wired right to her neurons, and two: no matter what, nothing could be worse than being dragged of somewhere else and having to wait, and imagine what could be happening. From up here, maybe she could even…

“No thank you,” she says, as a server tries to offer her a bright red drink in a distractingly elaborate cocktail glass. The Grandmaster sits at one end of the couch, but his smile has faded in a way she finds concerning, his brows furrowed instead in confusion as he looks down into the arena.

 “Hey!” Thor waves the club he’s carrying, trying to catch the Grandmaster’s attention. “We know eachother!” he says, a victorious grin lighting his face. “He’s a friend from work!” 

No one seems to object when she sits at the far end of the couch. She must be visible from the ground now, because Thor’s smile grows even brighter.

“Sige!” he exclaims, nearly giddy, and she waves back. “This is one of the Avengers! This is my friend, Banner!”

The Grandmaster turns to her as if for an explanation, and all she can do is shrug. She’s smiling, bewildered but joyful, caught up in Thor’s own enthusiasm even if she has no idea what he’s talking about. He has mentioned the Midgardian warriors he’s befriended, but she’s barely had a chance to speak to him since the Bifrost was repaired. After he’d returned from Midgard with his brother in tow, in chains, it had been off to set the rest of the Nine right, and from there, the day of the convergence, and then back to Midgard until just before—

Sigyn’s smile slips; she supresses a shudder. 

Below, Thor is still addressing the Hulk, gesturing excitedly towards Loki, what little colour Loki has now drained entirely from his face.

Loki’s got a hand planted on is brother’s shoulder, desperately trying to draw Thor’s attention to **_something_** towards the Hulk, who’s gradually stomping his way closer. There’s a tension in his shoulders and a scowl on his face that seems to be darkening as Thor speaks, replying in a low grumble she can’t quite catch, but it may just be a trick of Sigyn’s own imagination, because Thor certainly seems—

She jumps, curling back into her seat with her legs drawn up when the green behemoth hurtles forward and **_leaps_** for him. The beast— Banner, Thor had called it, Hulk, the audience is chanting— strikes at Thor with both weapons, raising a great crater in the arena as Thor narrowly dives out of his reach. Loki, already coiled and ready to bolt, springs back in another direction, putting a far greater distance between them.

Her hands find their way into her hair, anxiously twisting a braid into what’s left, trying to ignore the way her heart hammers in her chest. It’s fine. They’re fine. They’ve been adventuring for a thousand years, they’re together, surely they’ve faced worse. She’s heard stories: a hundred warriors on the fields of Nornheim, the Battle of Harokin—

_And how many battles did Fandral and Volstagg fight side by side?_

She gasps as the great creature strikes Thor with its hammer, sending him skidding backwards through the arena. He digs a blade into the ground to stop himself, and the caught breath finally slips from her throat because he seems fine.

_She tries not to remember the sounds they’d made as they fell. The clatter of armor and dull thud of bodies, the thin whine of dying breaths—_

“So,” she blinks, shocked from her spiralling as the Grandmaster addresses her, his attention divided between the box and the ring. ”It’s really Ass-guard, huh? Ass-guard,” he grimaces shaking his head. “Like, if I were to assign a protective detail to my backside, what I’d call that? _Ass-guard_.”  

Sigyn shifts uncomfortably, arms still wrapped around her exposed middle. This is absolutely not the time. She’s miserable, she’s terrified, she’s a **_prisoner,_** but it’s right **_there_**. Her eyes dart from the ring back to her captor, her lip caught between her teeth as she tries to keep from— “Well…”

Down in the ring, Thor pulls himself to his feet, looking up at his fellow Avenger as the larger figure bears down on him, clanging his weapons together, growling. “Banner, this is crazy. We’re friends; I don’t want to hurt you—” The Hulk lets out another raging bellow.

“Stop calling him that!” Loki shouts to him, as he’s been trying to since the match started.

“What, Banner? It’s his name!” Sure enough, the Hulk’s nostrils flare at the sound, and he roars again.   

“He’s telling you that it isn’t!”

The Hulk swings its massive hammer, and it passes right through the Loki Thor had been talking to, his real body half the arena away. He lets go of the weapon when it connects solidly with Thor’s chest, the hammer sailing through the air with Thor caught upon it to crash into the arena wall.

The Hulk barrels after him, stumbling for a moment as a series of throwing knives embed themselves in his calf and ankle. The Loki across the arena blinks out of existence as well, the real one uncloaked as he releases the barrage of sharp conjured blades. The Hulk ignores him, shrugging off the relatively tiny cuts that would have hobbled most foes, and charging right after Thor.

It’s bought him a moment, though, and Thor’s ready to wrench the immense hammer from the wreckage of the wall the moment the Hulk comes into striking range. He sends him flying, skimming the arena barrier, leaving a trail of rubble in his wake as the crowd finally hushes.

“Alright,” Thor smiles, taking up the hammer again as he approaches the downed Hulk. “Don’t worry, Banner,” he calls loudly, “I know you’re in there; I’ll get you out!”  The Hulk explodes from the pile of rubble and charges Thor with a booming cry, swinging with his ax. Thor swings at the weapon, rending the handle and leaving it unusable— the Hulk backhands him skidding across the arena.

“Phew! That’s more like it,” the Grandmaster says, clapping excitedly, his earlier apprehension dissolving, effervescent. “Oh!” beside her, he hums in the back of his throat. “I see. I see what this is. I get it. This is uh…” he trails a finger through the air, the point circling back and forth from Sigyn to the arena below, towards the edge of the ring where Loki is pacing, darts forward to throw another knife. “This is some kind of an **_arranged_** thing, isn’t it?”

Sigyn tries to bite back the uneasy laugh that threatens to bubble forth at that. She takes a steadying breath, thinks of something she can say without miring herself too deeply in the nervous habits that falsehoods tend to draw out of her. “That is usually the way with princes,” she agrees. 

“That explains it,” he says, nodding satisfied with himself. “He uh… he’s said you two have an, ah… Understanding?”

“Oh? **_Oh_** ,” Sigyn shifts awkwardly when she finally pieces together his meaning from his expression: the suggestive tilt of his eyebrows and knowing tone. “I’m um. I’m very fond of him,” she thinks for a second, looks down in the ring where she would be if he hadn’t intervened, “he’s been good to me, which… well, that’s already more than he owed me,” her hands find her hair again. “It’s… It’s really none of my business what else he gets up to.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, I see. I see. Perfect. Yeah, you know, you seem like a nice person. A generous person? Would you say that’s a virtue you endorse?” he smiles wolfishly when she nods, albeit hesitantly. “Good, good, that’s great, because I was just wondering how you felt about— ah…you know,” he shrugs, making a non-committal thinking expression she’s sure is meant to look spontaneous and casual, “ ** _sharing_**.”

Sigyn’s scoots farther down the couch, all but perched on the armrest. She twists to lean over its back, and catches the attention of the server, her eyes desperate and her voice strained. “Is it too late to change my mind about that drink?”

It’s like drinking vinegar that heard tell of black currants only in myth, but she downs it much too quickly anyway.

Across the arena from the Hulk, Loki helps Thor to his feet, eyes always on the beast as it slowly plods nearer, the crowd chanting for the Hulk’s victory. “I have an idea,” Thor begins, still eyeing the Hulk intently as he stands. “Brother, I need you to turn into Nat.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Natasha. The Black Widow,” he raises a disapproving eyebrow, “I believe you called her a—”

“Ah,” he quirks his mouth into an unhappy little grimace, clears his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, I do know who you mean. Why?”

“Just turn into Natasha, speak to him softly, say nice things, say ‘the sun’s getting real low,’ those exact words. I promise, it won’t be anything like the horse incident.”

“The horse—? Thor,” he begins warily, “Thor, why is it like the Horse incident? Why would it be **_anything like_** the horse incident? **_Thor?!_** ”

“Just do it!”

The Hulk is almost upon them, there’s no time left to argue. “Fine!” Loki cries, and with a sweep of green light, he takes on the form of Natasha Romanoff, as he remembers her: petite, shapely figure all but stitched into a formfitting black suit, chin-length hair, a vivid red. His memory of that time is more than a little foggy, but he thinks he’s done a passable job— it is, however, difficult to imagine her doing anything but faking tears or glowering at him.

If he had more data, more time to play with her tone and expression, put together something fitting— Shit. **_Shit_** , he needs to summon up gentle and calming, and he needs them **_now_**.  

A glance upwards, in the booth, finds Sigyn watching, knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes wide, hands clasped as though in prayer.

That will do.

Just be Sigyn, make friends with the big angry monster— a little bigger than a Kronan, but he doubts she’d let that stop her. 

The Hulk comes to a halt before the facsimile of the other Avenger, and Thor is nodding encouragingly, mouths: _it’s working!_

Loki steps forward in Black Widow’s borrowed form, eyebrows knit together in a familiar expression of tender concern. “Hey,” he eases, a hand extended cautiously, “let’s not fight… The sun’s getting real low…” It’s Natasha’s voice, but it’s a rush job, and he’s borrowing someone else’s mannerisms. The Hulk snorts, brows furrowing— not just angry, **_offended_**.

“PUNY GOD,” he rumbles, and it’s in that horrible moment Loki realizes the Hulk is intelligent.

His hand shoots out, and to Loki’s momentary relief, the massive fist closes around Thor, who lets out an indignant yell as he’s dragged into the air. “Hah—!” Loki has time for half a reflexive sound of derisive laughter before he realizes what’s about to happen and can only brace himself for impact. “Oh **_fu—_** ”

Sigyn gasps, hands clasped over her mouth in shock, but she can’t look away. The Grandmaster’s stuck by sudden gleeful laughter, a general ripple of fervor passing through the crowd in the booth and a cheer sweeps through the audience outside as the Hulk proceeds to hammer Loki into the arena floor with Thor’s flailing body, again and again. Loki tries to crawl away when he pauses for a moment to look out over the crowd, but the Hulk spots him and slams Thor down into his back again.

Sigyn’s stomach twists itself into knots as she watches, restless enough to crawl out of her own skin. She has to do something.

She keeps her hands clasped over her mouth, eyes fixed on the colossal green creature below, and breathes out deliberately like she’s trying to stoke a fire. No one seems to suspect anything— to any observer, she just looks like she’s watching in horror, which is easy, because she is.

In the arena below, the Hulk hesitates as something moves just out of the corner of his eye. He turns, and then there are more, tiny lights that glow and flutter, carried through the air and landing in his face. He scowls, roaring in frustration, swatting at the annoying little sparks that singe him where they land.

It’s enough time for Loki to finally dive out of the familiar Loki-shaped crater beaten into the ground and spring to his feet. A thrown knife, aimed just so, loosens the beast’s grip and Thor drops to the ground, landing more or less gracefully for how he’s listing, dizzy.

“Those damned SPARKLES!” The Grandmaster shrieks, slamming his hands onto his knees. He contemplates the remote at his side for a moment, but doesn’t move for it.

Loki and Thor exchange a look, panting and bloodied, as the Hulk prepares to charge again. “Get h—?”

“No.”

“…Now you see me?”

“Perfect.” Loki throws his arm down and with a burst of green light, the princes vanish.

A stunned silence passes over the crowd as the Hulk storms to where they had been a moment before, and unarmed now, he swings and beats his massive fists, raging at nothing.

“Over here!” Loki appears at the far end of the arena, and the Hulk barrels towards him, only to pass right through the illusion.

“This way!” Another Loki teases from behind him again.

The Hulk howls in frustration, stomping like an angry toddler. After a moment of thought, he rushes towards this new Loki, and seethes when it too is an illusion. 

 “Care to try again?” Loki’s voice taunts, and then, “Third time’s the charm.” Two appear this time, one Loki to either side of him. One grins, his arms open, and he gestures towards himself, inviting.  Though the mocking tone is the same, this one is cautious, coiled, ready to spring away at a moment’s notice.

The Hulk grins, and charges towards the second Loki, the one that’s afraid of him. That Loki smiles.

The illusion obscuring his brother falls away like a curtain as the Hulk rushes towards Loki. Thor is crouched, the massive hammer at the ready, a few yards in front of his brother and is revealed just as the Hulk is too close to stop. He swings upwards, and sends the colossal green Avenger soaring through the air.  

“YES!” Sigyn leaps to her feet, expression breathless excitement, hands curled into fists. “I just…” she ducks her head as she notices every face in the box now turned towards her. “I’m just so proud of them. They haven’t been getting along recently, it’s… it’s nice…” She sits back down, hands folded in her lap, mortified.

“Okay, yeah. Yeah, now you’re getting it,” the Grandmaster nods after a moment’s consideration, and smiles crookedly. “Wrong team, but that’s the spirit.” He looks perturbed, though, and taps the remote thoughtfully against his lips, brow furrowed. It had not occurred to him until he saw it happening that sending his favourite toys to kill one another might result in the loss of either or both.

In the arena below, Thor is catching his breath, evidently still dizzy from his time as a bludgeoning weapon. The Hulk skids to a stop along the ground, tearing up the red-patterned dirt as he goes. He lands closer to Loki, and Loki lunges for him, deftly darting in and out of the Hulk’s reach as he swiped with his massive fists, a dagger drawn. He’s drained, and battered and running on fumes— it shows in the way his shoulders sag and his chest heaves when he has a moment, how he grits his teeth to summon up the energy for each dive into the fray. He dodges and whirls with serpentine grace, dancing out of the Hulk’s grasp, slashing at vulnerable places from the openings he creates in the Hulk’s guard a thousand years of expertise on display.

The Grandmaster whistles. “He is **_something_** , isn’t he?”

Sigyn nods and dreamily hums her assent, very much distracted. Loki springs of the Hulks bent knee and perches on his shoulder, driving the dagger into the thick, crest of muscle of the Hulk’s bare shoulder, hanging on as the beast bucks to try and dislodge him.

The Champion is bleeding now, but it doesn’t seem to be slowing him down. It just serves to heighten the frenzy. Thor’s taken up the giant hammer again and bounds towards him, just as the Hulk manages to seize Loki from over his shoulder and sends him flying to collide with the arena wall.

The Hulk catches the hammer and after a momentary struggle, wrenches it from Thor’s grasp; it goes sailing back, narrowly missing Loki as he picks himself up off the ground. They exchange blows, Thor landing a punch that sends his helm flying, but the Hulk catches him in the ribs and sends him skidding along the ground. Before Thor can recover, the beast leaps, landing atop him and hammering down with his great fists, again, and again. One hand shoots out to catch Loki when he rushes to intervene, surprisingly agile, somehow more formidable as his fury grows, and whips him towards the edge of the ring again, not towards the wall this time, but high into the stands.

The crowd parts, the audience managing to hurry to either side before he crashes into the stadium. Loki groans, hanging upside down, sprawled over two rows of metal railings, his head spinning. The crowd is cheering wildly, but there’s dissent, now. Most are chanting Hulk. A few are calling for ‘Thunder’, fewer still for ‘Udon’.

A single voice, so distant he barely hears it, shouts: _Loki!_   When Loki peels his eyes open Sigyn’s on her feet in the Grandmaster’s box, her hands clasped to her chest, heartrending panic in her voice. She hasn’t used his given name since they were children.

The creature still has Thor, striking him repeatedly with blows that shake the arena. Those firefly lights are back in full force, but the Hulk doesn’t seem to notice them as they blink into his eyes and sizzle against his skin. Loki rolls off of the railings to crumple momentarily to the concrete ledge below, then drags himself to his feet. “Pardon me— terribly sorry, do excuse me,” he mutters hurriedly as he squeezes past the spectators to reach into a row of steps. “Thor, hang on!” he calls as he hastens to the front row, vaulting over the railing to fall back into the arena.

The Hulk beats his fist against Thor’s head, and his helmet goes flying. The opposite fist strikes the other side, then again, and again, though Thor’s eyes are distant. He’s seeing somewhere else.

White-blue sparks crackle at his fingertips, arcs of electricity run up along his arms and legs, branching and splitting and meeting, his eyes fill with the depths of his power and a warcry tears itself from his throat as he releases the energy at once.  It pulses outwards, racing energy sweeping the arena, sending the Hulk sailing through the air away from him— and Loki, too, just as he drops into the ring.

“Oh damn it— Sorry!”  Thor calls, wincing as he pulls himself back to his feet, eyes still aglow, still wreathed in the steady flow of lightning. Loki twitches a little. Thor lets out a slow, exasperated breath, and rounds on the Hulk. “Alright, that’s it. Time to end this—”

“ _Thun-der! Thun-der!_ ” The crowd is now chanting, as one.

Sigyn whirls around at the sound of something shifting, and finds the Grandmaster aiming his remote at the arena, face grim. “No!” she exclaims, and dives across the couch for it. They grapple for the remote, the Grandmaster trying to swat her away, until something— Topaz’s armored hand, clamps down on her injured shoulder, and she sees stars. She loses her grip on the remote, and the Grandmaster sticks his tongue out at her childishly before hitting the central button. At once, Thor and Sigyn collapse to the ground.

She finds herself on the ground, staring up at the ceiling of the box, voice drifting above her.

“—fetch the Meltstick for you, sir? Or should I just take her out back and—”

“What? No, no, no, Topaz. It’s a sporting event, and that one was a doozy. People get a bit out of hand, it’s part of the fun. What’s a little wrestling between friends? Just take her home.”  Where is that, exactly?

Something clicks around her wrists and Topaz’s scowling face blinks into focus as she’s hauled to her feet by the cuffs. Wait— what’s going on? How long was she out? The crowd is filtering out of the booth, the stands are beginning to empty, but Topaz is dragging her away while she’s still lightheaded, and she can’t see the ring itself— “What’s happening? Thor?” she calls, trying to pull back towards the glass, “Loki?”

“Show’s over,” is all Topaz says as she drags her out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always get to chapter two before I realize how I want to name my chapters. 
> 
> I hope people are enjoying! I'm definitely having way too much fun with this, so if anyone is having fun reading it, that just makes my life. I added this as a tag, but I feel like I have to reiterate that I'm definitely going for a toned down, this is just Jeff Goldblum in space, *Disney* Grandmaster, because I've read some really amazing but like, deeply twisted stuff, and like. Any of this working hinges on it being a zany Disney movie. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you so much for all the encouragement!


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